I
can’t say that I was shocked when I got to Mbarara Regional Referral
Hospital. I had been there before, so to speak, only
in a different country on the opposite side of the continent. I knew the stark
and dramatic differences. I was however taken aback yet again. It was hard not
to compare what I trained in and knew well with what I faced in Mbarara. At MGH
we have 11 delivery rooms, each private, with large beds equipped with movable
and removable parts. These accommodate 3000 deliveries a year. At MRRH they have
2 delivery beds. Simple steel frames with a thin black pad.
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Delivery bed on the Labour Ward at MRRH |
These 2 beds take
the hospital through over 8000 deliveries a year. This most basic difference in physical
resources is only just the beginning. In almost every aspect of patient care
and management the residents and obstetricians at MRRH make do with so much
less – almost zero nursing support, limited supply of drugs and equipment,
limited antenatal records, often no dating of pregnancies, no electronic fetal
monitoring, limited availability of neonatal resuscitation, limited or no
oxygen. This list goes on and on.
Despite the limitations of
medical care and lack of – almost everything physical, I have been most
impressed by the abundance of fortitude and patience displayed by the women seeking
obstetric care at MRRH. After a cesarean section, women simply get on with the
necessities of life with very little support. To begin with, they get an
astonishingly limited amount of pain medication. At MGH women routinely receive
IV toradal, shortly followed by regular doses of oxycodone or dilaudid, which
they not only have throughout their hospital stay, but also go home with. Here
at MRRH, it is a dose or two of pethidine (demerol) immediately post op, and
then rectal diclofenac as needed. That’s it, and no complaints - they just deal
with it. They go to the bathroom
themselves, empty their foleys themselves, , provide for their own meals, own
sheets, and own supplies as needed. They
get only the basics from the hospital – a “Mama Kit” which includes: a bar of
soap, 2 plastic sheets (on which they have their vaginal exams and on which
they deliver), a roll of cotton wool (which become their pads), 2 packs of
gauze, 2 razor blades, and a health card for their child.
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Mama Kit Provided to Patients on Admission |
On top of that, their
recovery is far from comfortable. In a postnatal
ward built to accommodate 30 women, there are often as many as 60. When the
beds run out, which they always do, women, post vaginal delivery or some even
post-cesarean get a mat pad and make a space on the floor – either squeezed in
between two beds or at the foot of the beds. This happens every day. In the
time I have been here I have never seen any woman complain, argue or express
the slightest irritation at being placed on the floor. If they are asked to
move to allow a doctor or nurse to get to a patient or a piece of equipment,
again no frustration or complaints they simply pick up their mats, their
personal belongings and their babies and move.
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Postnatal Ward at MRRH |
Without a doubt these women
display extra-ordinary fortitude in coping with their physical pain and in managing
without many of the comforts and support that women in Boston taken for granted.
Perhaps even more remarkable is the resilience shown by a significant portion of these women recovering from a neonatal loss, or delivery of a stillborn child. At
this hospital the stillbirth rate has ranged from over 2-6% of deliveries. That
is as many as 58 stillbirths per month, with over half of those often occurring
intrapartum. Women who have suffered these losses also simply go on, also
squeezed into the postpartum ward, perhaps next to, or in between women who are
fortunate enough to have their babies well and crying at their sides. Their
expressions and demeanor often reveal little and it is so easy to walk past
them, or even examine and assess them without recognizing or acknowledging
their loss.
On rounds one day I attempted to ask a woman
where her baby was. I was with a resident from India and we both could not
communicate well. The woman lying next to her listened to our fumbled attempts,
and took pity on us. She could speak
English –“the baby is in the Toto ward” (pediatric ward), she said quite
simply, “they’ve taken it for testing”. We thanked her and continued with our
assessment of that patient. About 5 minutes later we got to the woman who had
helped us. She also had no baby. We asked and she said – her baby didn’t make
it. It was born alive and died shortly afterwards. From our conversation 5
minutes earlier I would never have known. For this woman, I had the opportunity
to acknowledge her loss, and express some amount of empathy – though from where
I stood I clearly had no concept of how she really felt. I wondered how many
other women I had walked past or assessed without any recognition or
acknowledgement of their loss. Knowing the stillbirth and neonatal rates, that
I had done so was a certainty.
Adeline Boatin
OB/GYN Global Health Fellow